


Friendless

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [53]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oh dear god the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:26:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Effectively alone in Kattegat while Ragnar and Lagertha are in Hedeby, Athelstan has time to reflect again on his sense of belonging, and on how he got to this place to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendless

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 3x05

Athelstan's heart hurt. For her, definitely: For a dear friend to have lost control of the earldom she had fought so hard to win seemed cruelly unfair. Yet he also couldn't help feeling some of that hurt for himself.

Ragnar's plans for Paris—and his own involvement in their inspiration—had been well received, and preparations for next summer's trip had already begun, with Floki crafting new boats, the blacksmiths making and repairing weapons and shields, and supplies being stockpiled. Lagertha, however, was less concerned with that, and more concerned with getting Ragnar's help in wresting back control of Hedeby from the duplicitous young man who had stolen it. So the pair of them set off for the other village, leaving Athelstan behind. "I promise we will be back soon," Ragnar had said. The look on Lagertha's face said it might not be so simple.

They were gone but a week, yet in that time, Athelstan couldn't help feeling more and more isolated. Rollo, never a close friend on a good day, was mired in grief and self-loathing at the death of his beloved. Bjorn, while still kindly disposed to him, was distracted also, being by the side of Ϸorunn whenever she allowed him, hoping that despite her disinterest in all things, the child she carried might still grow.

And Aslaug, well . . . He had hoped to spend more time with the boys now that they were back, but Aslaug kept a tight rein on all of them. The most he had had with any of them was a brief moment with Hvitserk while the boy played with a late-born lamb. No sooner had they begun chatting about the beast's antics than Aslaug arrived to pull her son away, his protests echoing through the streets as she propelled him toward their quarters.

By far the biggest snub was from Floki, though that didn't surprise him. Though they hadn't talked about it much, Athelstan knew Floki blamed him, in part, for Torstein's death. An attempt at protest—expressing his own deep, aching grief at the loss—was met with sneers and a crack about how they would never see each other again; Torstein had earned Valhalla; Athelstan never would. Helga had tried to mend things between them, but her sweet will was soon overpowered by her husband's. With a sad smile, she turned away from him as directed.

Not all in the village were so hostile, however. Elisef the healer, mother of Leif who had taken Athelstan's place as a sacrifice in Uppsala, and who had tended Torstein during his mushroom-induced fake death, was kind and generous as usual. For a day or two, she welcomed his help with the still-steady stream of ill and wounded who had returned from the war for Mercia. She was busy enough, however, that they were never able to say much to each other beyond instructions for caring for a patient.

What little solace he found came from a surprising source: Torstein's women, whom he had met some time ago while bunking with the man after his first return from Wessex. Having set aside their differences in the wake of their mutual lover's death, the two had bonded, sharing support and comfort for their late pregnancies, and doing their best to get by with the remainder of Torstein's estate which had been distributed between them. When Athelstan stopped by—they had moved together into Torstein's house—they were happy to see him, and begged him for whatever he could say about their lost love. He couldn't help them much, having not been on the Mercia campaign, but he did recall a conversation on the westbound journey wherein Torstein, though lamenting the choice between them that had been forced upon him by their enmity, did wax romantic about each of them in turn. He would have been happy to see them get along, Athelstan told them, and surely he would tell the gods to celebrate the impending births of his children.

Despite this comfort, as he strolled the alleys of the village, running the odd errand or simply getting some air, the most he got from near everyone else he passed was a tight smile. They had seemed happy enough with him when Ragnar announced the Paris raid, but without their king around to shore it up, that positive disposition had faded. It didn't help that he still wore the cross around his neck. All who saw it recoiled; he tucked it away under his tunic and eventually took it off entirely, keeping it secreted in a pocket whenever he was out. Yet in doing so, he felt much the same as he did when he had to resort to subterfuge when addressing questions or rumors about his relationship with Ragnar. To hide this cross was to hide part of himself, just as he hid his true feelings for the man he loved. Indeed, it was the same as he felt hiding his love for the Aesir when he was among the Christians back in his homeland. That, at least, might someday be something unremarkable, he considered, as long as the settlement went well. Though perhaps Floki was right, Athelstan worried. Perhaps the power of Christ would subsume the power of Odin, and the settlers or at least their descendants would become Christian. For all that their raiding, and now their settlement, had left the mark of the Northmen upon England, it, too could leave its mark on those who stayed.

It was lonely here without Ragnar. In his arms, all was right and Athelstan felt that he could be whole; he could be everything he was without shame or indecision. Likewise he welcomed all that Ragnar was: Pagan, though with curiosity about Christianity, king, farmer, warrior, father. Lover. Many things that his people accepted and appreciated, but some they did not. They were a nation of two, Athelstan recognized: forming their own land from the debris and ashes of the ones that had borne them.

Yet even as natural as he felt whenever he was with his beloved, there were still a few parts of himself that he guarded. After a particularly friendless day, in which no one spoke to him unless he spoke to them first, he headed back to his room, feeling lost and rejected. In a trunk at the end of his bed, under a pile of clothes and other belongings, he fished out some things he had brought back with him from Wessex: A thick pile of vellum, a handful of quills, and a couple of pots of ink. Supplemented with the hand-fashioned charcoal sticks he had used here before, the sheets soon became rich with words and images. He wrote in Latin: though Ragnar would not have known how to read even his own language, he still felt somehow that his words should be private—something readable only by himself, at least in this land. The pictures, however, were something else. The one thing he had left behind in Wessex before, the absence of which had gnawed a painful wound in his soul, was his love of art. Now, with the tools he had gathered from his old workspace, he could again indulge in the passion that spoke to him more than faith—either one—or most of Earthly life ever had.

When he started on the first one, the wry amusement in it was not lost on him. He was illuminating a text; performing the work he had learned in order that he may, through it, glorify God. Yet it was no god nor even a saint or prophet that his tools and skill portrayed this time. It wasn't even a Christian.

As Ragnar's features took shape, Athelstan recalling how fresh the king's face was so many years ago when they first met, he realized: This was his god now, and it was up to him how much he wanted to pledge his faith.


End file.
